


To Whom it May Concern

by Sevynlira



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Masturbation, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), after the body swap things happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29237217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevynlira/pseuds/Sevynlira
Summary: Crowley doesn't realize that his deepest most sincere thoughts have become prayers to a certain angel. It really shouldn’t be possible!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that the rating may change as the story progresses. It may take a turn into more salacious waters. I will make sure to warn as I update.

It was the screaming.

It never stopped.

Every hour of every day.

There was only one way to ever, ever live in such a place. Turn it off. Or go mad battering against the inferno of it all. At first it seemed absolutely impossible. To function in such a place. Angels are resonant beings. Vibrations. The voice of god shaking the universe. It was nigh impossible, learning to exist on such a limited bandwidth. Vibrating the air between corporeal bodies and pushing it with breath toward each other. So primitive. But necessary. Humans bathe in the constant howling scream of the sun. These impossible little creatures. Their local star is a ball of radioactive meltdown that sounds like a million million voices all in unison. They are so very close to it! Every single bandwidth is shattered into fractal white noise that feels like being drilled between the eyes. Only the guardian of the eastern gate and the tempter within ever really learned how to exist in such a place. Turn it off.

The closest analogy would be a human speaking in sign language to compensate for the loss of hearing or speech. Awkward and stiff until you get the hang of it. Frustrating at times. As any new thing is. Other angels are absolutely horrified at the thought of losing that sense. The ability to communicate between each other with a thought. To capture prayers. Those little packets of addressed and date stamped communication. Humans have figured out how to send these little messages some time ago. Tuning into the frequency with deep concentration and using a tool called reverence to boost the weak signal. All very formal of course. They haven’t evolved or invented the receiver to get such messages. Yet. Aziraphale is quite sure it’s only a matter of time.

Although, with this screaming radiation so close, the filters to block it out haven’t really ever been successful. Even with angels. To be fair, they haven’t really tried. Aziraphale never mentions it in any meetings. When angels finally get around to it, Earth will be fair game and get good reception. That wouldn’t do at all. He likes working in this backwater. It was a lovely excuse to keep his happy distance from Heaven. He had to turn it off. The intractable sun, you know. Trying to stay sane. So, no, Gabriel I didn’t get your message. You will have to write. Or visit in person to vibrate the air toward each other. Human speech.

In some ways, the demons have been a little more clever. They observed humans communicating long distance using a very very limited bandwidth. Television and radio. So they get their instant communication in that roundabout way. Aziraphale doesn’t mention that in any meetings either. Watching Gabriel’s pinched and pained face when he visits is amusing. Watching him attempt language and sounding so completely discomfited. It makes up for those rare moments when he misses using angelic speech. The intimacy of sending a real message. One with the enfolded array of senses. The scent of it, taste, touch. All of the sweet slow warmth of emotion and then the burst of thought. He turned it off. Thousands of years ago. Packaged himself inside the corporation assigned him and used only the tools of human hearing and sense to communicate here.

There are some messages that have been packaged for human minds. Tiny engineered things. Scraps. Truncated and hobbled to get usually only a single line of intention through. Very important stuff. Only top level communications and so carefully threaded into the throat and lungs and teeth of the angelic corporation that visits. Sometimes it hadn’t been packaged well enough. The human loses consciousness if they are lucky. Sometimes they hallucinate, see things. All mixed wires as their bodies try to interpret the message and send bursts of tastes and lights and sounds and shapes. Prophets are a little more along the appropriate evolutionary scale and can get more of the message, but still. Wheels and eyes? It is what happens when a brain tries to process data it isn’t meant to translate. It makes up the best approximation.

Gabriel had attempted screaming over the entire radioactive spectrum a few times. It made every human eye within fifty miles of Aziraphale bleed. They had resorted to, in-person verbal communication and written reports from then on.

So you can imagine the utter shock when it happens. He had turned it off. And yet, there it is. So quiet. So incredibly gentle. The brush of wings. The sensation of unfolding warmth. The reverence. Packaged so similar to human methods. So similar that it got through. Somehow. The taste is prayerful. Worshipful even. Makes sense. That is the widest bandwidth. The easiest to slipstream a message. The content is longing. A hand stretching and reaching out for him across the cold distance. The message, if it could be contained in language is this, “Please, if you can let me be close to you, I want to be. Every day and hour. I won’t be a bother to you and I will do what you say, if only you keep me close.” The entire message is one burst and then silence. Just a swelling ache. It was addressed directly with his name all over it. But no hint as to the sender. All blurred and warped there. It fades in stages as if reluctant to stop. Aziraphale immediately responds of course. He attempts a reply using the same delicate and volatile frequency. Static. The ever present distortion. More silence. Huh.

There is one matter that Aziraphale hasn’t really settled down to think about seriously for a very very long time. The matter of the demons. They have fallen.

The art and imagery of the fall does evoke some of the terror of that time. But they don’t really address the psychic destruction.

Psychic warfare scorched out the part of them that receives messages.

Like cutting out tongues. En masse.

One obliterating strike that severed any hope of them communicating or catching angel communications.

"It had to be done", they said. "The enemy cannot listen to our battle plans."

It was nonsense. Personal messages and back channels were possible, and had always been possible. But it was important for cutting off all chance of there being a second wave of rebellion. The horror of it. Being muted like that. Disfigured. No way to reach out to your former garrison or choir or assembly. All silent. There was only the scarred stump of that ability left perhaps, but so wounded that the speech of demons sounds even more warped and garbled than humans. Only the most volatile emotions leaking through. Hate, fear, disgust. The theory that they could only feel such things grew. It even spread among the humans. The rumor that they could only lie and live in filth and perversion. It had been so long since anyone had really spoken with a demon, every encounter now was rife with polluted impressions. Further widening the gap between their own split species. All the demons have in mind is rage and filth. Never mind that the parts of them that could communicate anything else were forcibly severed.

The demons even began to believe it. If you cannot ever say the softer things through psychic communication, does that mean you are incapable of feeling them? Will the frustration of never being able to express those softer emotions get to be too much and you just discard them as useless anyway.

Why feel something that you can never share?

Why bother?

It hurts to be reminded. Intimacy and bonding through psychic link was impossible. So they set it aside. Used the garbled lines for hate rallies and bully pulpits. For harassing and striking fear.

It was the wailing rant that got them sidelined to their own channels. Tuning in there might corrupt your entire world view. The scathing hateful diatribes of fear and filth that turn any celestial’s stomach.

The demons communicate to agents on earth through human means. Low bandwidth. Simple flat orders. They too deal with the ever present radiation that further warps their already tortured communication. The occasional possession or malevolent intention is sent even over human radio frequencies. Habits of speech carry over and worms spilling from the phone receiver is quite on par with the demonic language.

Aziraphale has to consider it now. This was close range. None of it indicated being sent from heaven or hell. It was clearly sent on earth. It was so full, so rich. A human cannot attach so many sensations, they don’t even have some of them. Purely a celestial. Or, well. Infernal. It was quiet and brief and had a slight sibilance. A lisp if you will. It was actually, well, endearing in a way. That slight psychic speech impediment.

It was a bonding link. An intimacy.

Impossible.

There are no angels on earth right now. So two options.

A: Angels have learned some way to arrive by stealth to other angels. Which hasn’t even been something they have ever tried or mentioned or planned for. The arrogant celestials can’t even comprehend why subterfuge would ever be needed in the first place. If you are the supreme being in that particular corner of the universe why bother hiding? From the humans, yes because God said so. Always. But from other angels? No. Not likely. So.

The other option. B: A demon has somehow communicated with Aziraphale. A demon that is not only capable of that kind of thing, but also seems to be speaking very intimately. As if that demon knows him. Well.

Aziraphale feels his entire corporation flush hot. It is Crowley. It has to be. Impossible. Incredible. But, surely not. There is another option. Aziraphale is hallucinating out of sheer isolation and not using his own psychic link in any real way in centuries. He thought he had turned it all the way off. It’s a single message and already fading and Aziraphale feels silly for being so sure it happened.

Just a side effect.

It was bound to happen eventually. It is a bit worrying, but Aziraphale is quite adept at setting aside his anxieties. There is just less chance of these intimacies in the future is all. Aziraphale had chosen. Our side, Crowley said. Mingling with other angels in that sort of way isn’t likely now. For sure. It was a manifestation of his own fears about losing that. Not that he ever had it in the first place. Silly thing to fuss about. He is fine. They are fine.

He doesn’t close the channel. The unnoticed single frequency that is tucked around that blasting stream of noise. Something inside him just decides without really examining his motives. He pokes at it. Turning his attention and touch to the sensation of it. Worrying it like a river stone between his fingers. It joins his other comfort habits. Tea, warm jumpers, the scent of books, and that single quiet strand that had linked him. Just once. Maybe. Probably not. But maybe. To somebody else.

It’s why he almost chokes on a mouthful of cocoa the second time it happens. His own attention and touch has amplified the signal until it rings bright and true and as close as a whisper against his skin.

“I sssswear to fuck. You are doing it on purposssse.” A flash of some view of his corporation, very closely attentive to the stretch of his trousers over his thighs. A breathless rolling lust and the very incredibly human sensation of arousal is attached. Again, that little flaw tucked into the language. The sibilant lisp. Another stretching sensation of longing. Reaching for light. Some green thing that twists toward the sun.

This is a human bodied celestial capable of arousal with a speech impediment who has stolen some of the expression of plants to communicate the desire for connection. Celestial speech that has been damaged. Probably from the fall. A demon. And they know him. They have seen his incorporated self in person. The list of possible suspects is narrowed down to exactly one.

It has to be him. Somehow this demon is speaking directly to an angel about. Well. The frank human expression of communion. The aching desperation of green things for sustenance. The longing tied with lust. Potent. Strong. As strong as hate and fear and disgust perhaps. Has any demon ever felt that strongly? His own prejudice insists that it is impossible. Surely not. They can’t. They are demons. They don’t want things like that. Right? It was cut away. That ability. If Crowley could speak to him this way he would have. Ages ago.

Everything had changed. They had cut ties. Severed allegiance. Something happened. And Crowley is asking. In exquisitely explicit terms for a bond.

It can’t have been easy. Trying to reach out this way. Not for a demon. The hurdles and complications to make it work must be enormous. That shredded vestige of his celestial capabilities crafting such a thing. Oh but what an intricate and lovely lattice he had built of it. It had been a single sentence. So simple. The yellow green glint of sunlight on leaves. The human flesh warms with it. Rich and thick with need. Aziraphale’s corporation had responded in kind. He thinks about it, taking out the message and holding it in his regard over and over. And every time he does, the wealth and weight of its intention grows. As if the message is responding to his viewing. Unfolding and exposing the ripe center of itself. As if he really is the sun and the message is opening just for him.

It takes him four days just to think about his response. He agonizes over every single nuance. He must keep it very very brief. It may hurt Crowley to try to unpack anything too delicate or complex. He really must choose carefully. With all the directness he can manage to pack into a single thought, he sends it delicately down the connection. He doesn’t dare attach an image or an allegory. Safer to keep just to the basics. A single emotion. The feeling of looking up from his books to see Crowley in the doorway. The warmth of his assent. Yes.

“Of course my darling. You are always welcome.”


	2. Chapter 2

He waits. Weeks roll by. Silence. 

Aziraphale cannot handle waiting any more. So he finally breaks. He calls Crowley. On the telephone. It is as unwieldy and stilted as it has ever been. He doesn’t mention the other conversation they were attempting. Not over the telephone. If there is some polite convention he has taken from the humans it is that more important conversations should be managed in person if at all possible. Besides, he could do with a nice meal to settle his jangling nerves. It is odd how he had worked up the courage to be so daring just short weeks ago in the most intimate of settings. Now he feels his corporation squirming with anticipation and nervousness over just a meal. How sudden! He hadn’t been so changeable before he knew Crowley.. Perhaps Aziraphale has changed more than he had imagined. It might be one component to this sudden amazing possibility. 

He didn’t count on Crowley not saying a single thing about it. The demon acted exactly the same as ever. Not a single twitch to indicate that there is some change. Aziraphale's confusion is so intense that he picks at his food. Of course, his agitation is clear as day to his closest friend.

"Everything alright angel?" Crowley asks. 

Aziraphale isn’t sure of anything at all, especially how to start this conversation in the human method. Excuse me, my dear, I wanted to mention that I got your message and would love to open a small space to commune with you in private. It has been a long time since the angel had felt so constrained by the human way of doing things.

“Ah. Quite alright.” He reassures his friend and then immediately regrets his cowardice. Perhaps with some wine and several hours, he can settle comfortably into himself and get his thoughts together, he reasons. Some social lubrication has always paved the way in some of their more difficult conversations.

At some point the conversation died while they drunkenly pondered what in the world they had been talking about and Crowley’s customary sprawl had melted into what looks more like sleeping. His head is tipped back against the sofa arm and his glasses are smushed beneath his hip. Eyes closed and throat exposed. 

Aziraphale didn’t exactly forget to bring it up. He simply procrastinates until the wine convinces him it doesn’t matter and falls back into his usual comfortable hazy winding conversation with Crowley. So when the next message arrives all jangled and tangled and warm. Aziraphale almost leaps from his seat in surprise.

And the message feels like he looks. Soft and vulnerable and smeared and tangled with boozey incoherence. A cold lonely thing warming in the sun. A stone? A frozen pebble after the tide has pulled back dries in the sun. And a reptile. A snake. Of course. A snake coiling atop the warmed stone and drenching itself in heat. The heat of alcohol. It is an iteration of a theme. The same warm sun and twining green things thriving beneath it. An impression of being nourished by the recipient. 

If it could be said in words, they might sound like, “Your light is comfort and life. It is warm. Let me rest here.” 

Proximity has given the message a much clearer signal and pitch. The booze has obscured and warmed it but only seems to give it more character and tagged the moment with ties to the physical reality of the incorporated body. Again, the richness and unique beauty is astounding. Angels would often show off with flourishes and intricate little details woven into their missives. Nothing this creative. Nothing this simple. It is art. So flawlessly elegant even while being unassuming. The idea that he might have ever mistaken this message as being from anyone else suddenly seems ludicrous. It is Crowley. So explicitly and completely him. 

Aziraphale nudges that connection that stretches between them. Nothing. What if the fall damaged his ability to receive? Oh. It changes things. Oh that would be so unfortunate. Not to share this in both directions. Painful. To receive such flawless gifts and not able to reply at all. Well. To reply only with the human tools for such a thing. What if Crowley doesn’t know that he is trying to respond? What if he thinks Aziraphale is ignoring him? Even worse. He can’t possibly let the demon think that. Not for a moment.

He has to say something. Now.

“Crowley” he says, with quiet determination in his tone.

“Mmmfff” Crowley replies as he shifts his hips and turns his face into the sofa cushion. 

Asleep. He is asleep. And hasn’t just drifted off either. He was most definitely asleep when the message was sent. Oh! Oh. But that is impossible. Well. Obviously not completely impossible. It just happened. Crowley had grabbed onto a psychic line, directed his intention right at Aziraphale, and fired off the most lovely little missive all while sleeping. If that was the craftsmanship and perfection of a message composed entirely in the subconscious, what potential does his waking mind have? 

It is a staggering revelation. What in the world is he supposed to do about that? Crowley doesn’t even seem aware that he has done this thing at all. The line is left open and clear and receptive even if the demon doesn’t stir or reply to the gentle nudges that Aziraphale offers. It also seems to be growing more robust with time. Aziraphale’s attention to the tender connection seems to have encouraged the signal. Proximity is also helping with the constant interference.   
The demon seems to have settled into such a comfortable sleep. There is a radiating soft tap of Crowley’s psyche reaching for the connection as he sleeps. It feels like rain on a windowpane. Soothing. Rhythmic. Comforting. Aziraphale allows sobriety to shake his own psychic cobwebs and settles into his chair to read while pondering the situation. 

Something had changed about them. The two of them. The most obvious answer is that corporation swap. They had left a “map” for lack of a better word, of themselves as a lattice for the other to build a believable simulacrum upon. 

What happens when a fallen celestial takes the map of a whole and undamaged celestial and copies it? Does it repair some of that lost function? They didn’t just copy the corporeal body. That wouldn’t have been enough. They also matched that radiant frequency. The divine vibration. The harmony of the other. The exact pattern of notes that make them unique in function. It was necessary. When their corporations were handed out, they came with a fingerprint lock and anyone using Aziraphale’s body would have to match that lock to walk around in that body. So the duplicate had to be perfect. The celestial self molded to fit it exactly. The map slipped to each other by touch. A handshake. And they had to become something else. Just for a little while. They read the map and copied the celestial shape close enough to don the corporeal body. 

They had saved that pattern somewhere in the vastness of self. And if you have two beings vibrating at the exact same pace and tone. Yes. It opens a link. Between them. They tuned themselves to each other. Somewhere in the melody of himself, Aziraphale is singing the song that the starmakers do. And somewhere inside of Crowley is the holding steady tone that guards and holds the gate. What have they done? They can’t untangle it now. It is a memory and angels don’t have the human luxury of forgetting. 

What is a message? It is an idea that is put down into some means of sharing it with the world. If you read a message until you know every word by heart. Then you have become that message. A living book. Walking around in the world with a connection to that idea. Every single copy of a message could be burned. And if one being in the universe knows it, then the idea is still alive. 

God had an idea named Crowley and an idea named Aziraphale. One of them fell and the other did not. But Crowley has copied every note of the message called Aziraphale and holds it somewhere in his being. So. As long as Crowley lives, the idea of the angel of the eastern gate lives as well. There is a piece of Crowley inside that has not fallen. The angel has done the same and now holds some part of a demon within himself. 

No wonder they can hear each other. They might as well be sharing minds. And with time it may be that easy. Aziraphale is sure of it. If his metaphysical assumptions are correct. This connection will only grow and there is no reason for Crowley not to see it with time. He has the map inside himself of how to be whole again. His embodied fallen state only has to notice it and heal. How unlikely. How incredibly remarkable.

If he had known. Oh he would have swapped corporations with Crowley a couple thousand years ago! What precocious fortune and fate. It has the beautiful symmetry of God’s hand in it. He knows it. This familiar shape of events unfolding. She had planned for this. All of it. And now this sleeping beauty is capable of sharing the deepest connection known to either of their species. What a wondrous gift. 

He had never imagined that he would have that bond with another. Angels begin to harmonize and match frequency and tone over millennia of sharing space together. Choosing to be together over and over and speaking to each other with psychic messages until they can match each other’s song. Humans do this too, in a way. Those couples who have spent decades together. Becoming more and more alike. Until they can finish each other’s sentences. A bond forms between angels until they can share more than just intentional messages between minds. They share dreams. They don’t just send emotions as flat packages with attachments, but full bodied experiences. Like the one Aziraphale had received. No wonder it was so intricate and stunning. 

He and Crowley had managed that without the advantage of psychic speech this entire time. They had been matching each other and meeting for only four thousand years. And still. They could send a map of themselves with a touch and interpret the map and copy it within themselves so perfectly that even an archangel hadn’t caught on. A bond. They had bonded in the way of their kind. Even with the massive handicap of no psychic speech. Amazing. Impossible and amazing. 

The betrayal of his kind and the rejection of heaven should have scalded any faith in God from him. Perhaps if he had never met Crowley it would have. But what better proof that She has not forgotten them? This amazing gift. This beautiful demon sprawled and at rest while Aziraphale cradles the precious waves of his sleeping mind rocking gently against the ebb and swell of his own thoughts. 

It will come. In time. Crowley will heal. Now that some of the confusion has died down, Aziraphale finds himself grateful for this one sided state of affairs. He has time to adjust. The angel has never been particularly comfortable with change. Living among humans has inoculated him in so many ways to his natural preference for routine and structure. Humans change on a daily basis with dizzying alacrity. And Crowley of course, ever malleable and capable. Completely falling into whatever situation he finds himself without a sign of discomfort or distress. Just getting on with it. It is enviable.

This time, he has space and time to adjust before Crowley is going to storm into the scene and be his chaotic impulsive beautiful self. Aziraphale can test the waters and soak for a while in this new wonder. Again, the perfection of this entire scenario strikes Aziraphale. The ineffable. Truly. For events to unfold so perfectly. None of this would have happened without a fall. Without the antichrist child. Without every single step going this way. And here they are and it is breathtaking in complexity. It feels like a thank you note from the almighty. A gift to reward him for staying by the wild demon with the big imagination.

He has time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where the rating will change. Read with caution. It is mature waters from here :)

Of course he had grievously underestimated the effect that this new bond would have. He was doing so well with it. At first. The seemingly random but potent wash of Crowley’s mind reaching for him was always so brief and fond. He was handling it beautifully. Enjoying it even. Eventually though, his discomfort with the inability to reply at all began to set in. There was a distressing sensation of being spoken to directly and not being able to utter a single word. So after some hesitation, he did begin to send replies. They were kept careful and brief and always with the smallest attachments. Just in case it would hurt his friend. 

Mostly he would send warm approval and encouragement. It did relieve some of the tension and weeks rolled by without any major shift in tone. It was a comfort. He began to wonder how he had been so alone before. How had he gone without the gentle pulse of Crowley’s mind visiting? He had been lonely. Hadn’t even realized it. Not until he wasn’t anymore. 

All in all, he was quite proud of himself for handling it so well.

The first sign that he might be out of his depth came on a stereotypically grey London afternoon. Fat glowering clouds had sulked across the horizon until they finally capitulated in a halfhearted desultory mist. The discouragement of weather had kept him happily alone in his shop for the day and he had lost himself a bit in the catalogue. A soft nudge of connection had prompted his attention, and he had been so distracted that he accepted and unfolded the message before considering for a second that this one might be different. 

And oh. It was so different. Water. Falling water. Like rain. It suited the weather. This drowsy spill of wet. Only this rain was warm, bordering on hot. The sensation of heat spilling down his back and flanks. Oh. It was a shower. And attached. Well. Just the view of pale fingers sliding down a flat stomach. Thumb brushing the chestnut and cinnamon trail of hair that tracks downward. A single word. “Angel”. The message holds there for a long breath before ending with a spike of pleasure that almost drops Aziraphale to his knees. He braces himself against the bookshelf and tries to slow his pounding heart. He might have also whimpered a little. 

Maybe, just maybe he isn’t as prepared as he thought. 

His entire corporation rings like a struck bell. He casts about for some other topic. Any topic. It doesn’t work, because the message is insistent and tempting and his attention keeps picking it up over and over. He could look. Just one more time. He does look again. The second round of arousal should have been diminished by fair warning. Somehow it is even stronger. Anticipation seems to be heightening the potency. Knowing it is coming is only making it stronger. Fascinating. That one long drag of seconds before the blowback of pleasure is somehow the most interesting and wild sensation. A held breath. The waiting. It is absolutely indescribable. 

It takes a little while to set the message aside. Set it aside only because he promises himself that he will open it again later. There is a rolling squirming feeling in his stomach. It is pleasurable and new. He was quite sure he had felt everything there was to feel in these bodies. Apparently not. There is a sensation that is fluttering in his stomach. It is similar to feeling nervous or excited. Somehow both and neither. It is dread and longing both. 

The arousal he is quite familiar with. Bodies are quite pneumatic and vascular and it all seems to make some sense. But this squirming butterfly feeling and the way his skin feels awake and aware. It doesn’t tie into anything he knows about the composition or structure of the body. He supposes he could do a full inventory and know exactly what chemicals are causing this floating transparent delicate feeling. But decides that would ruin the experience. No. He will do this as a human would. Soak in the feeling and let it be a mystery and a wonder. Such a peculiar and shocking thing. 

He also has the impulse to make an altar and ceremony to build around his next encounter with the message. Water. Heat. Oh yes. A bath. That would do nicely.

Aziraphale arranges every single aspect of his bath with meticulous attention. The heat of the water, the candles, the entire set and setting. It isn’t until he has found the absolute pinnacle of relaxation and comfort that he dares to copy the placement of that hand. Fingertips cupping and holding the tip of his rampant cock and the edge of his thumb brushing the downy patch of fine hair at his groin. The anticipation has built until he is vibrating with it. 

The message practically explodes open with a bright unfurling of sensation. Heat. Slick runnels of water tracing in long hot waves against the smooth muscles of his back. The gathering pearl of water gathering at his chin and dropping onto his chest. That building aching pause. The wait. Oh. The ache of it. Pulsing so thick and hot in his palm. Only one single idea. A whisper into the steam. “Angel.” And that spike. That punch. Aziraphale’s back arches and he bites his bottom lip to hold back his gasp. His muscles draw up tight and pulse. Pulse. Oh. Lights flicker behind his closed lids. Orgasm. His body is completely overwhelmed and the tip of his cock tingles and goes numb a second before he spills into his fist. His eyes fly open and the message transposes his own hand with another. Clever pale hands with narrow wrists and a dotting of freckles across the knuckles. For a moment he is experiencing his own body’s overwhelmed physical storm and also experiencing that other body. Overlapped. Merging. All at once he can feel the twinned places where his own response is exactly the same as Crowley’s and the places where they fall away from each other. His own orgasm is shorter and more intense while Crowley seems to ride further out and slip away in stages. Like a dance that compliments the other, the doubled sensation doesn’t clash or interrupt, but seems to flow like a call and response between the message and himself. Again. It is flawless. 

He radiates satisfaction and lies content as a cat until the water begins to chill. Then quite urgently there is a niggling sensation that perhaps he had missed something super important during this entire exchange.

Standing in a shower. Touching. STANDING. Crowley had been AWAKE. This was no dreaming drowsy sleeping note. He was awake! Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Aziraphale had read the message over and over without a thought. What if Crowley is aware now. Aware of everything. Taking a shower and, well, oh fuck. Thinking about. He must have been thinking about- Oh goodness. Aziraphale can’t even finish that thought to himself. The demon must have been still subconsciously sending the messages. Surely. That was. Highly intimate. But what if he felt the line connect? What if Aziraphale replied by instinct? What if Crowley gets a message from Aziraphale that is as explicit and intimate and doesn’t know why.

Aziraphale leaps away from the connection between them with sudden panic. Had he replied? In the heat of the moment? Had he sent something back? He scans back through his memory. Maybe. The connection is something he touches almost constantly now. So. Probably. Oh fuck. Crowley is now sitting with a rather scorching intimate message from Aziraphale in his inbox. If he ever checks the line. If he ever notices. And he probably will. Notice the connection. Probably soon. 

The butterfly sensation of anticipation and pleasure has been replaced with a hollow panicked frantic anxiety.

Aziraphale is so out of his depth.


End file.
